


Ornament

by WhoopsOK



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Con Artists, Consent Issues, M/M, Master/Slave, Other: See Story Notes, Public Blow Jobs, Rescue Missions, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 04:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: Of all the rare works of art people visit the manor to see, of everything bought, bartered, and fawned over, everyone always comes out agreeing on this one detail: Neal is beautiful and looks beautiful in everything.(Mozzie was casing the place to steal some art, but decides freeing a captive masterpiece is more worthy of his time.)





	Ornament

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Kinktober Day 23: Shibari, sorta master/slave?
> 
> Consent issues: Neal, in his position of servitude, does not have the option of consenting.

Neal looks beautiful in everything.

Of all the rare works of art people visit the manor to see, of everything bought, bartered, and fawned over, everyone always comes out agreeing on this one detail: _Neal is beautiful and looks beautiful in everything_. They talk about his eyes and his cheekbones, they talk about his body and how it bends, his lips “ _when he’s allowed use of them.”_ They pick him apart and the intrigue circulates amongst even the commoners. Whatever else may be inside, the townsmen who couldn’t afford to breathe the air daydream mostly of laying eyes on a gorgeous man with dark hair, stunningly blue eyes, and a smile that could charm your heart right out of your chest.

The day Mozzie sees Neal for himself, The Curator has him floating in the middle of the room, bound in rope. It’s enough to make Mozzie forget to breathe for a moment.

Because for all he’d heard about Neal, he’d not actually been interested in him more than passing curiosity. He doesn’t trade in humans; his hands are far from clean, but he’s never stooped so low. Neal and his hypothetical, _astronomical_ cost are inconsequential to Mozzie’s mission here. He conned his way into this event, he knows damn well he should keep to the sidelines, keep an eye on ways to get into the back rooms where the _real_ versions of these fake portraits are. He’s got money to make here, but it’s on parchment not skin.

…But Neal is the most beautiful—and expensive—thing in the room and, well… Mozzie is up for the challenge of stealing a person. To free him, of course, him being a good Samaritan and all, you see.

It would still be the biggest heist he’s pulled off, if only he could figure out how to do it.

Sticking to the walls and pockets of people too drunk to remember his face, Mozzie tries not to be obvious in his staring. He does have an excellent poker face, but looking directly at the object you intend to steal is one hell of a tell.

They’re adjusting Neal at fairly regular intervals, leaving the rope indentions crisscrossed as he is continually strung back up in different positions. There is almost always a staff member near him, though they would likely blend in to the untrained eye. People come close and ogle, whisper behind their hands, but they have the good sense not to do much else. It looks like nobody even tries to speak to him.

The third time Neal is adjusted leaves him dangling sideways, like something fallen out of the sky, caught halfway through a net. He dangles there looking beautifully broken; ropes accentuating the muscles of his chest, the curve of his groin through thin fabric. There’s a scarf wrapped around his mouth this time and he lets his head hang and the ends of the silk are long enough to brush the floor as he sways.

Mozzie finds himself moving towards him as if pulled which—it’s less of a plan than he usually has in these moments, but his instincts are very rarely wrong. Or, not often wrong.

…Not _always_ wrong.

Up close, Neal is even more dazzling.

The expansion and contraction of his chest against the ropes is the most _fascinating_ thing to Mozzie, almost as much as the faint red-pink rope burns all over his body. It is a stunning display of craftsmanship, really, the rigger should be rewarded for his contribution to the artistic world. To anyone else, Mozzie thinks, Neal would look sleepy, so relaxed he may be out of his own body.

Mozzie is not anyone else, though; he can see that Neal appears to be waiting quite patiently to let something chaotic twist out of himself. He is not relaxed, he is confined and clever and _bored._ It’s…honestly a little sad, this bird in a cage. Mozzie wants him to sing, if he can’t be free.

Suddenly, with a level of desperation he has not felt since his adolescence, Mozzie wants a pretty boy to pay attention to him. He wants to be the shiny—short, balding, but _magnificently interesting_ —thing that catches his attention.

Most people do not know Mozzie, but those who do know that at his heart of hearts he is a con man; he puts on an excellent show when he wants to. Almost as soon as he starts talking—about nothing incriminating, he _wants_ but he is not a fool—Neal seems to suddenly see him, singularly, out of the crowd of people he’s been conscious of but not _interested_ in. Mozzie’s ego hums pleasantly in the back of his mind, because Neal is focusing on him, even if he doesn’t dare crane his head to follow Mozzie’s chaotic little path around him. Even just this is drawing too much attention to himself, he knows, but as always, there will be another town after this, another rich noble to rob blind. He has nothing to lose here—nothing _bank breaking_ anyway—and Neal’s attention to gain. Charm the heart out of your chest, indeed.

It seems innocuous enough until Mozzie makes Neal _laugh_ and, even if they both freeze immediately, more than a few eyes turn to them.

“It seems you’ve taken a liking to _my_ _Bennett._ ”

Mozzie whirls around, feeling it in-character to do so, and finds himself facing the Curator. The man looks not exactly _unamused_ , but definitely like Mozzie touched a line. He doesn’t seem like the type to resort to violence, not in a crowd of dignitaries, but the way Neal had frozen for _laughing_ implies he’s like every other dime a dozen man with more money than kindness.

“Ah, yes!” Mozzie agrees, turning to look at Neal who’s gaze has dropped back to the floor, empty. It gets a hook in Mozzie and _pulls_. He’s got to get him out of here. “He is quite stunning, by all means a—”

“If you’re going to get in him trouble, make it worth it,” the Curator says.

“Sir?” Mozzie asks, but follows his meaning a split second before the man nods at Neal’s crotch.

“Those tear away. If you are so interested, make good of your interest.”

Mozzie tries to keep his nerves internalized, but that just makes his tone a touch too bright to be believable. “Shall I make a show of it, Lord Curator?”

The Curator’s eyes narrow fractionally, Mozzie’s insolence felt on some level that he can’t prove enough to justify publically punishing. Mozzie is not owned, nor will he be, nor will he behave like he is. “ _Surely_ , you’ll make it worth my time…?” The statement is left hanging, half a question; he wants a name.

“Ivan, my lord,” Mozzie tosses out easily because that’s what his invitation says and he will answer to whatever he is called. He gives a flourishing bow, “I shall do my best.”

Mozzie’s “best” at giving head is…well, probably not the highest ranking or anything. It’s been a while. But the people to which he sells his wares are often showy in their opulent decadence; he knows what the wealthy watch their toys do for fun. He’s been asked to give a show and he does.

Trailing his hand down Neal’s thigh, across rungs of rope and their indentations, Mozzie watches gooseflesh bump up Neil’s skin. When he’s not interrupted, spurred to hurry, he decides the show doesn’t have to involve immediately testing his gag reflex. He circles Neal, alternating between gentle scraping and tickling with just the tips of his fingers all across his body. It’s probably a little to obviously adoring when he brushes a curl behind Neal’s ear, but the way he shudders makes some of the nearby gentlefolk sigh with want. Mozzie moves on to tear away his underwear, faintly pleased to find Neil’s dick at least is interested in the proceedings, more so when Mozzie teases it with his hand. The angle is such with Neal dangling off the ground, Mozzie only has to lean over slightly to reach Neal’s arousal. He drags his mouth down the shaft and up and down again, soft tongued and sloppy wet.

Neal flexes in the bonds, groaning around his mouthful of silk.

Mozzie swallows him down, hopelessly aroused by Neal’s reactions, _entranced_ by him. Somewhere in the middle, his mouth getting thicker with the taste of Neal’s approaching orgasm, Mozzie’s own arousal shifts out of focus when a thought occurs to him, brilliantly. He might be able to get Neal out of here yet, but—oh, that’s a thought to consider in a moment because Neal is heaving for breath, moaning low and insistent, a warning. There’s a moment where Mozzie thinks to push deeper, let him come down his throat, but he’s not certain he wouldn’t choke and ruin the effect. As it stands, a split second before Neal’s body doesn’t give him a choice, Mozzie pulls up so he can suck the head and use his hand to jerk Neal into his mouth. The sound Neal makes as he comes, body twisting in it’s bondage, is nearly enough to make Mozzie come right along with him. Not now, not now, though, he’ll entertain his own hand later, right now he has to focus.

Pulling back, he is intentionally careless and lets some of Neal’s come escape down his chin. He reacts with the appropriate level of embarrassment and fishes a kerchief out of his pocket. If anyone notices him open his mouth against it, nobody mentions it.

“Not a waste, I suppose,” the Curator says carefully, but his eyes are dark with arousal and he doesn’t feign disinterest well.

Mozzie bows, fixing his mouth before he speaks, clearly, if a little rough. Nobody mentions that either. “I’d kiss him, if I might, my lord?”

“He’s meant for _pleasure_ ,” the Curator says, aghast. Mozzie doesn’t let himself think about what they’ve made Neal put in his mouth that could possibly be worse than what his dick has encountered. It doesn’t change what Mozzie would do, especially given that he’s had his _dick_ in his mouth, for fuck’s sake.

“And a great pleasure it would be!” Mozzie exclaims.

The Curator seems annoyed with him, but in the sense that he is an eccentric, not a threat. He motions Mozzie on dismissively, half-turned away to speak with a servant or his wife or a foreign dignitary, Mozzie doesn’t actually care. He’s made too much of a scene to worry about trying to con his way out of here with a painting, he’ll just have to find a new forger.

Neal doesn’t dare look at him at first, not until Mozzie crouches right into his line of sight, touching his chin. He takes the silk away, _wishes_ he could hear Neal’s voice, but knowing he is too…well-trained, we’ll say, to speak freely. Still, his eyes are alert on Mozzie’s. He opens easily to the kiss; _well-trained,_ Mozzie’s brain supplies again and hopes he’s a good enough actor to play this off without getting them caught. He can feel Neal pause as the broken-off end of a lock pick slides between his teeth, but it’s miniscule before Neal laughs again, so quietly it could pass for a sigh. Mozzie pulls away before he can lose himself in indulgence. He returns the silk to Neal’s mouth, after giving him a moment to situate himself, before bowing lavishly towards the Curator.

“I thank you kindly,” Mozzie says, eyes cut to Neal. Neal looks thankful, too, for a split second, lets Mozzie see that, before his gaze goes pleasantly vapid again. The show must go on. “If you’ll excuse me,” Mozzie continues as he rights himself, adjusts his pants around his arousal. “I have a matter to attend to.”

*

Mozzie winds up attending to this matter in a dark corner of the hedge maze behind the manor. But from what he can hear, he isn’t the only one, so he will not be entertaining shame tonight.

*

Weeks later, Mozzie finds himself sitting on the patio of a coffee shop when he hears a clink, a little splatter of hot tea splashing over his fingers. He looks down to see his lock pick in his cup. He glances up at the slotted overhang, heart racing, but as soon as he doesn’t see anything, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. “Clever trick,” he says, fishing the lock pick out, drying it on a napkin. “Did you take my wallet, too?”

“Not the real one,” Neal says, sounding amused. Sure enough, Mozzie’s bait wallet—battered leather, full of poorly-made counterfeits—lands on the table. Mozzie turns to look at him and, just as that first night, his pulse tries to stumble off beat.

Neal looks beautiful in everything, but hooded in—likely stolen—mercantile robes is probably the most fetching so far.

Mozzie clears his throat. “Glad to see Ol’ Faithful was of use to you,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.

“It was,” Neal answers, sitting down. “I almost kept it for luck.”

“Ah, luck is made. But if you fixed your luck on it, have it back,” Mozzie says, sliding it across the table. “I have several.”

“Do you?” Neal says considering, not like it’s really a question he intends to get an answer to. He probably has a rather good understanding of what Mozzie is and does, even if he doesn’t know exactly what form it takes.  When Mozzie, as anticipated, doesn’t respond beyond smiling, he tilts his head, “What were you looking for?”

Shrugging, Mozzie tosses his hands out. “Something expensive,” he confesses, but continues before Neal can properly tense, “I don’t deal in skin.”

“So you freed me out of the goodness of your heart?” His eyebrows raise when Mozzie laughs.

“If freed you because you were the most expensive thing in the room,” he replies, “Even though you were in my hands for but a night, I still would like to say I stole you. That’s pretty good credit in my, ah, _profession_ , let’s say.”

The warm glow Mozzie had expected to feel under Neal’s attention brightens when Neal’s brow quirks, looking at him like he’s peculiar and like he might just like that. “So is there any point to asking your real name?”

“Is _Ivan_ not real enough?”

Neal’s mouth twitches towards a smile, even as his eyes narrow.

Mozzie chuckles. “I go by Mozzie these days,” he says, “ask about me and I’ll find you.”

“Ok, Mozzie,” Neal says and Mozzie has never loved the sound of his name more. “How do I find _you?_ ”

Isn’t that the question! Followed closely by: does Mozzie even want to be found? The short answer is _yes, intimately,_ but Mozzie didn’t get this far in life being led around by the nose by pretty boys. Neal is interesting, which means Neal must be at least a little dangerous. He’ll have to work for it, because Mozzie was never one to be easily straightforward or trusting. “Who knows!” he exclaims dramatically, “Introspection, perhaps. Some lucky incense might help. A lock pick if you have one.”

Neal smiles then, tapping his lucky lock pick against his lip and _oh, yes,_ how dangerous.

_That’s_ a smile people should be warned about; it leaves Mozzie’s heart trying to escape his chest to reach Neal. It winds up with a much shorter distance it would have to go because Neal stands up to come close, leaning over him in a way that can’t be misinterpreted. Getting kissed so brazenly in broad daylight is a novel experience for Mozzie, a fact that makes his mind go a little fuzzy and soft around the edges. Able to just focus on kissing Neal, not who may or may not be watching for something secret passing between their lips, Mozzie can’t help but think it _still_ feels like something secret is passing between them now, too. It could just be him romanticizing the situation, though. Neal is an _excellent_ kisser and Mozzie is left breathless when he pulls away a fraction.

“I think I might just ask about you, Moz,” Neal says conspiratorially and his eyes are _very_ blue this close. “We might be useful to each other.”

Mozzie nods at him, dumbly—no, _agreeably_. “Then I await your call.”

Watching Neal go until he disappears impressively seamlessly into the crowd, Mozzie can’t quite puzzle out whether or not he was telling the truth, but would like to think he is. Wishful thinking, probably, but not _naïve hoping_ , Mozzie tells himself _._ Because who knows? Maybe they _will_ find each other again.

“And maybe when that happens,” Mozzie muses aloud, rubbing down his chest with an amused sigh, “I’ll find my wallet, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…you beautifully decorate every life you enter


End file.
